


nessuno sa la verità

by eomerking



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, F/M, M/M, Mafia AU, Rain, Swearing, a lot of smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-03-29 05:37:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3884371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eomerking/pseuds/eomerking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(some things are unforgivable, and sometime people won't accept forgiveness even if it's offered)</p><p>Bellamy Blake returns to the home that he tried to forget, after enemies that aren't his own try to shoot him and kidnap his sister; and wonders if history is ever escapable.</p><p>((OR: the convoluted Mafia AU that I somehow wrote down)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sleepless As The Rain

**Author's Note:**

> soo, this was born out of horrendous writers block on my multi-chapter (which i'm still not over oops) and a really melancholy mood, but it turned out some sort of okay???
> 
> (Also, props to Ottermo for helping pick a title that wasn't unbearably cliche ;))

It always rains here.

Grey and cold, thudding into him relentlessly. It feels like home.

If he hunches his shoulders it beats into his back, drumming on his bones, so hard he thinks that maybe if he stands still it will drive him into the very earth. A relentless tattoo, drenching him, washing away everything that he tried to be.

He knows he can’t be that man anymore.

Not when he has bloodied bullets in his pocket and a hole in his life.

Bellamy knows the path by heart; he always has done. Gravel crunches underfoot as he walks, puddles climbing over his ankles. Yellow dust muddies the clearness of the water, turning it grey. Once, he would have taken great strides, eager to meet what was waiting at the end. But not now. Now he lingers, looking over every detail. Rivulets of water leave the crab-apple trees, the branches bowing under the pressure, bending to meet the ground. The leaves trail and bounce, slick surfaces glinting in the pale light. The rain seems less like rain when it touches the leaves, like something alive and bleeding; red and growing steadily redder.

Bellamy hates red.

He feels the urgency of his visit hounding him, yet he can’t help himself. It’s been so long since he’s been here, but nothing has changed.

Him the least.

Every thought he has of this place; of what he left and what could never leave him, feels like a betrayal of the man he tried to be. The man he fought so hard to be. The man he failed to be.

There’s the gate, tall and iron; twisted spires warning against entry. Guards linger there, hands on the butts of their rifles, their watch vigilant. They aim at him, shouting, black coats and black guns, and Bellamy does little more than lift his head. Rain runs off his face, dripping off of the end of his nose. It clings to his eyelashes and the stubble on his cheek. It matts his hair and weighs it down. It soaks his bandages and lets the blood seep through.

The guards spit as soon as they see his face. Ten years is a long time to hate someone. He doesn’t even remember their faces, but he supposes that stories of him must be drilled into them from the moment they get handed a gun. A cautionary tale in which he is the villain.

But Bellamy shows them her ring, hung on the chain around his neck. The heavy weight of it usually sits over his heart; a literal embodiment of the memories he holds of this place. Of everything he couldn’t take with him.

The gate swings open, smooth on its hinges. The spires are no less threatening once he’s on the other side, reminding him that this time he cannot leave so easily. The guards’ radios crackle and they growl down the receivers, throwing curses at him. The path beyond it seems to stretch on for miles, but Bellamy remembers how many times he has to put his feet down before he reaches the manor at the end of it.

The rain still lashes him, crashing into the puddles at his feet. There isn’t a dry part of him. Everything around him is washed in grey.

He should be cold, but right now he doesn’t care.

Relief he shouldn’t feel rises in his chest as he walks the final paces, rounding the final line of trees.

The front of the manor is exactly as he remembers it. Tall and imposing, the sandstone faded by age. It’s almost more of a castle than a manor, turrets and wings a plenty. Ivy climbs every inch of it, glistening with the rain. It’s red and severe, and looks like blood poured from above.

Bellamy lets his fingers trail over the rough stone before he can think better of it. He traces the scores and pockmarks, curling his fingers in the deeper crevices. He finds the one by the doorway, as wide as his fist, nearly covered by the creeping leaves. It’s the final one he saw being made. More surround it.

The double front door is taller than Bellamy by several heads, and wider than his arms outstretched. When he was last here the studded wood had been polished and natural, the same colour as a sunset. Now it was as if the ivy had leaked, bleeding onto the wood and staining it, turning it to the same macabre scarlet.

Bellamy hates red.

The brass knocker is a griffin, its features as fierce and beautiful as the family that shares its name. It’s in the exact centre of the left half of the door. He’d measured it once, curious. It revealed nothing more than he already knew: Griffins were exact in everything.

Bellamy lifts the heavy hoop then lets it drop, and the noise echoes behind the closed door.

Staff in the Griffin household have always been well trained, so it’s no surprise when the door is opened barely seconds after Bellamy had knocked. He doesn’t recognise the young woman who peers at him. He can’t place the tangled whorl of black hair, or the pale, ghostly skin. She fits into her surroundings well, grey and greyer.

But it’s clear that she knows him. Emotions run through her face faster than Bellamy can recognise them before she settles with calmness, distrust shining through like a beacon. Her eyes flicker to his chest briefly, and it’s then that Bellamy realises that he’s still clutching the ring. He lets it drop like its burning him.

“Bellamy Blake.” She says softly, opening the door fully.

He says nothing to her, stepping inside the home he swore he’d never return to. He’s greeted by the dark panelled walls and the sweeping grand staircase, as austere and lofty as he remembers. Paintings and displays hang from the wall, records and memories of Griffin history. There’s no light apart from what sneaks through the heavy clouds outside and manages to pierce the windows.

It’s quiet, inside, and he can hear the rain better now it’s not deafening him. It thunders against the stained glass, warping the coloured shadows on the floor, dulling them. He shivers at the lack of it, the still air raising the hairs on his arms.

That draws the woman’s eyes back to him, and the fact that now there’s no rain to wash him, his blue t-shirt is steadily turning red. She frowns, running her eyes over his shaking frame. Something like concern flitters across her face before she remembers who he is.

“You’re hurt,” Her hands go to his waist, peeling back the sodden material of his top. Bellamy doesn’t protest, raising his hands so she can get to the wound. She tuts at the sight of his sloppily applied bandages and tugs the t-shirt back down. She doesn’t seem to mind the watered down blood now on her hands.

The woman turns on her heel, expecting him to follow. Bellamy leaves puddles in his wake. The woman avoids carpets, leading him over stone floors instead. Bellamy knows where they’re headed the second they turn out of the grand foyer, ducking down side corridors.

The East wing is where he grew up. He was taken in by the family, and raised among them – but separate. He knew his place. The woman is leading him there now, down narrow paths and low doorways. They emerge in a wide room, and Bellamy holds his breath.

Nothing has changed.

Not the low couches, worn and faded, over stuffed and comfortable. Or the table gouged with their names, or the fireplace that used to hold pictures of them. The rugs are tasselled and fraying, paths carved into them by years of weary feet.

Or the walls that are plastered red, but not bloody – instead warm and familiar.

Bellamy fucking hates red.

Two men are lounging on one of the couches, one reading and the other smoking. They look up as Bellamy and the woman come in, and react violently.

Bellamy remembers them with a painful clarity. Jasper Jordan and Monty Green.

Jasper was always the loudest; the happiest. He marked his friends clearly, his youthful exuberance manifesting in his every action. He was eager to please, to do as he was asked, and able to talk circles around most people. Monty was the sweetest – and if any of them could ever be called pure, it would have been him. He looked away from the inherent violence, lingering in the gardens instead. He didn’t believe in the actions that they used to take, but he believed in the reasons behind them.

Them turning their backs on him was almost the most painful.

They look nothing like the young men he remembers. A decade has affected them as much as it has him, but they bear it far better. They’re no longer bumbling adolescents, too tall and too unsure. They’ve slipped into adulthood seamlessly, bulkier and fiercer than Bellamy would have ever imagined. They wear suits now, their pants pressed with neat lines, and their shirts rolled to their elbows. A well fitting cliché.

“Maya _!_ ” Jasper shouts. His cigarette is clamped between his teeth a smoke curls out of his nose. Bellamy remembers teaching him how to hold the smoke in. The hate directed at him now is enough to sour any memories he has of them together. Before.

Fury colours his voice when Jasper speaks. “Get _away_ from her!” He surges from the couch and snatches the woman into his arms. Jasper pushes her behind him, his hands flexing.

Monty has the book clutched in his fingers like it’s a weapon. His face is pale, but gone is the lack of confidence. Monty no longer looks to his best friend for reassurance, that much is clear.

“What are you doing here, Bellamy?” He demands, his words short and severe. Bellamy nearly flinches at the venom Monty puts into his name. Maya tries to struggle from Jaspers arms, getting only as far as the man’s side before he pulls her back towards him, his hand around her elbow. Maya pushes him.

“He has her _ring_.”

Jasper looks even angrier, and Monty starts to shake. He holds his hand out to Bellamy, stalking towards him. He brandishes the book under Bellamy’s nose.

Bellamy raises the chain over his head slowly, mindful of the hole in his side. It feels strange to finally be rid of the band, after holding on to it for some many years. Monty snatches it from his hands and backs away towards his friend.

“Did she give this to you?” He asks, his voice trembling.

“On the day I left.” Bellamy confirms, his voice rough. He hasn’t spoken to anyone in days, not since the first attack on his life. He’s been too busy getting here to talk.

Jasper looks as if he’s had the wind taken out of his sails, his anger suddenly undirected. He and Monty look between themselves, their jaws clenching and their faces conflicted. Maya breaks from his hold easily.

“He’s injured,” She tells the two men. It’s odd to see concern on their faces, but the looks gone in seconds. Jasper’s indifference comes quickly and expectedly, but seeing Monty’s is almost a cruelty.

“Is that why you came here, Bellamy?” Monty asks quietly, his eyes going to the ring on his palm. Bellamy knows every detail of it, and could draw it from heart. The stone is deep and cold and blue, the same colour as her eyes. The band is etched with her name on the inside, and if Bellamy were ever to wear it, it would be stamped onto his skin, the same way she’s stamped irrevocably onto his heart, her memory carved into his bones.

Bellamy shakes his head. He hasn’t slept in days, and words are hard to come by when he tries to find them.

“No. I don’t care that they came for me.” The blood leaking from his side means very little to him. But he struggles with his next sentence, still coming to terms with it himself, “But they took my sister.”


	2. The Smoke of Home

The men freeze after his statement. They had loved Octavia as much as they had loved him, but Octavia had never betrayed them. Jasper and Monty had been the closest to her in age, only a few years between them. And Monty, in particular, had been fond of her. Obviously they hadn’t ever considered hating her, and for that, Bellamy is glad.

Before they can ask anything, Maya sends Jasper away to get her first aid kit, and orders Bellamy to sit on one of the couches. He used to have an arm chair, but that’s gone. They probably threw it away. Or reduced it to ashes and cold embers. Bellamy doesn’t blame them.

Monty stokes the fire, building the flames to a steady roar. His shoulders aren’t as narrow as Bellamy remembers them, and are now held in a tight line, tense and angry. The heat of the fire washes over Bellamy instantly, drying his skin. Maya helps him take his t-shirt off, her fingers steady and sure. She frowns when she gets another look at his bandages, and Bellamy can’t help but wince as she pulls them away.

Water has pooled around the wound, and it oozes when the final layer is unwrapped. Maya says nothing, crouching by his legs so she can peer at the hole in his side. She pokes it without warning. Bellamy’s fingers curl into the material of the couch, and his whole body tenses against the pain rolling through him.

“Gunshot,” Maya notes, her fingers probing. Bellamy clenches his jaw and lets his eyes slip shut.

“Nine millimetre.” He says, fishing in the pocket of his jeans. The bullets are wrapped in plastic – part of a supermarket bag, the closest thing to him on his way out of the apartment. Underneath, they’re coated in blood and brick dust.

“Nasty,” Maya says without inflection as she takes them from Bellamy, turning over the parcel in her hands. She unwraps them, careful not to touch the bullets themselves. “There’s blood on all of them.” She notes, moving the bullets around the plastic wrapping, “Did you get shot more than once?”

Bellamy shakes his head. He meets Maya’s eyes,

“No. The other two went through my neighbour head.”

Maya flinches, covering them back up hastily. It’s a small comfort to Bellamy to know that at least some of the people here are still affected by death. Monty moves away from the fire, taking the bullets from Maya gently. He brings the casings up to his face, and what he sees makes him frown.

“These are Grounder bullets. From their factory in Tondc.” He tosses the bullets down onto the table, and they _clink_ against the wood. “I need to make some calls,” he turns to Bellamy, his face hard. “You even _think_ of hurting her, Bellamy…”

Bellamy raises his eyebrows. “She’s the one with her fingers on my insides.”

That doesn’t reassure Monty, because he remembers what Bellamy’s capable of. How good he used to be at this life – how good he still is. The attack on him had proved that. Three armed gang members had stormed his apartment and he was the only one to walk out alive.

“I’ll be fine, Monty.” Maya says, looking away from Bellamy’s side for a bare instant. She flashes Monty a soft smile, “Jas will be back down in a minute.”

Monty must still have some sort of faith that Bellamy would never hurt someone he didn’t need to, because he nods, slipping his phone out of his pocket and tapping away as he leaves. Maya can do very little for Bellamy’s wound without her kit, so she keeps inspecting it. She’s quiet, and Bellamy’s glad of it. The only sound is the crackling of the fire and the ever present rain.

“Your kit must be a while away,” Bellamy says once Monty’s gone. Maya’s fingers still.

“He’s gone to get Wells,” Maya says, leaning back on her haunches.

“So I’m just going to bleed out?” Bellamy asks caustically, “Great.”

Maya swallows heavily and stands, holding her bloody hands away from her body. “No one here has forgotten what you did, Bellamy.” She says quietly, moving towards a tall wooden unit against one of the walls. There’s framed pictures hanging next to it, memories captured and trapped behind the glass. There’s more than he remembers, but now some of his favourites are gone. Maya opens the doors of the unit, pulling out a large green case.

Bellamy watches her closely as she brings the case over, setting it down on the table – far from the bullets. She opens it and wipes down her hands, then snaps on thin plastic gloves, flexing her fingers before sliding packets out of their places.

“It doesn’t matter,” She comments as she measures a length of wire thread, “that you have the ring. They can’t trust you.”

“What about you?” Bellamy asks as she approaches.

“I’ve been treated better than I deserve here.” Maya says lightly, crouching again, her hands reaching for Bellamy’s wound. “I was on the wrong side of the war with Mount Weather. When I crossed lines, I was offered a place here.” She pushes the wire through his skin without warning. Bellamy’s nostrils flare as he suppresses a shudder, though he’s unsure whether it’s due to the sharp pain or the name of a place he’d rather forget. Mentions of Mount Weather sit ill with him, forcing him to remember his own actions.

“I would be stupid to trust you, Bellamy Blake, after what you did.”

She pulls the wire taut with a savagery Bellamy wouldn’t have expected from a woman so soft looking. But loyalties run deep in this place. Bonds are born in blood and battle, each person reminded who it is that saved them. He should know better than to expect gentleness off of one of them.

“I did what I did for my family,” Bellamy hisses as Maya starts on the next stitch, moving quickly and without thought to his pain. He can’t see anything of her but the top of her head, but he can feel the disgust aimed towards her.

“This place _is_ family.” Maya says, tugging the wire so roughly Bellamy grunts. Her voice is the opposite of her actions. “You should know that better than any.”

Silence falls again as Maya finishes the row of stitches, slapping on a dressing with the flat of her hand. Bellamy’s just tugging his shirt back on when the door to the room opens. His t-shirts nearly dry, having been close to the fire.

“Bellamy,” Wells says coolly, his hands in his pockets, pushing his suit jacket back. He won’t get out a fight out of Wells; it’s Murphy who’ll start punching. Wells’ first instinct has always been to understand, but not always to forgive.

“Wells,” Bellamy greets, not surprised in the slightest. Wells Jaha has grown up exactly as everyone expected him to, his curve predictable. He’s in the papers most days, underneath bold headlines about his business and partners. His face is almost as recognisable as hers. Maya stands by Jasper’s side, not protesting as he steps in front of her, his body a shield against Bellamy. They share a look between them, before Jasper turns on his heel, Maya close behind him. She casts one final look back at him, her eyes flat and judging, then she disappears into the vast warren of corridors that make up the manor.

Now alone, Wells’ dark eyes flicker to the bullets, and then to the red stain on Bellamy’s t-shirt. He shucks out of the dark suit jacket, sitting heavily on the couch opposite Bellamy. Muscles strain against the white of the shirt, and when Wells loosens his tie Bellamy can see the thick, raised red line on the side of his throat. Wells makes no noise as he catches Bellamy’s stare, his lips twisting in a slight, sardonic smile.

His fingers search through the pockets of his jacket for something, and he pulls out a silver cigarette case. Wells flips the case open and takes one, holding it between his lips as he offers the case to Bellamy. Smoking is a strange thing to Bellamy; it’s as dangerous as anything else that they do, and as just as likely to kill them – but slower. She had hated it, and probably still does, but hers is an opinion that Bellamy doesn’t get to know anymore.

Bellamy takes the case, easily noticing how Wells makes the offer with his bad hand; the index and middle finger of his right hand missing. Wells joked in the hospital that it was a good thing he was left handed.

When they both have their cigarettes lit, Bellamy closes his eyes again. He hasn’t smoked in so long, he’s forgotten what it is to have the taste on his tongue, to feel the pressure in his lungs, the way it glides down his throat and straight into his blood. He’s quit and picked the habit back up again more times than he can remember. Maybe it’s symbolic; how bad he is a letting things go.

Bellamy watches the smoke curl from his lips and up into the air, the shapes it makes pale and ghostly. Wells’ eyes are firmly on him.

“Tell me,” Wells says, not an order or a direction. It doesn’t have to be; Bellamy came here to talk, so that’s what he’ll do.

“They came last week with threats. They didn’t believe that I wasn’t a part of this anymore,” Bellamy begins, waving his hand, including everything in his statement of _this_ , “My death would still hurt you, apparently. Or so they thought,” Bellamy laughs, the sound harsh and un-funny. Wells says nothing. “They made large and started a fight, and I killed one of them before they escaped.”

“Two days later they came again. I wasn’t alone this time, and they shot my neighbour in the head before I could say anything,” He grimaces, because Roma hadn’t deserved that. Bellamy may not have loved her, but no one deserves to be killed because of a war they have no part in. “All of them died in the end, but not before one of the told me that they’d taken Octavia.”

“Do you believe them?” Wells asks levelly, taking a deep drag of his cigarette. Bellamy nods, his heart sitting heavy in his chest.

“I searched everywhere for her, went to her work, her apartment, her gym. She’s nowhere.”

“So they have her.”

Bellamy closes his eyes again and listens to the sounds around him, fire and rain and his own steady breathing. This room used to be a comfort, but now it’s a reminder of everything he no longer has.

“The Grounders took my sister.” Bellamy states. Just the action of saying it aloud makes his chest contract painfully, as if he’s suddenly made it even more real. His baby sister; gone.

Octavia had been a part of this place too, but unknowing. At the start she was too young to understand what was happening around her, and when Bellamy got them out, she knew better than to ask about the manor and what it all meant. But it means that, however little they care for him, the people here still remember Octavia. And that means something.

“Then we’ll get her back.” Wells declares, looking Bellamy in the eye. “Monty’s gone to tell people. Everyone will be back by the morning. I’ll have Maya and Reese make up a room for you; you look like shit.”

Bellamy nods, trying to think of nothing but the smoke in his lungs and the fact that he _will_ bring his sister home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. 
> 
> Yeah, so I'm really starting to stuggle with the Uni AU, so this might turn into my main story? idk, i'm just not having an easy time getting words out recently, for anything really. But this is slightly easier, so it might take precident.   
> But tell me what you think? I know it's a little weird.


	3. Whispers Through the Door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY FOR THE HUMONGOUS WAIT OMG

The room Bellamy is given is his own – or at least it was the one he used to have before he left. Everything about it is different than he remembers, from the colour of the walls to the furniture to the sound the door makes as it closes behind him. Only the view out of the window is constant, acres of land hidden by the horizontal rain. Maya and Reese - a young girl no older than sixteen, a patch over one of her eyes - had been almost sympathetic as they left him. Reese had hesitated, but Maya had caught the girls sleeve before she could say anything else, pulling her from the room. But they had left a fresh package of bandages, and pitcher of water and a glass, so Bellamy supposes that he can’t be wholly hated by them.

Bellamy can spot every difference within the room, no matter how small. He sits on the bed, and even that is new; metal and blocky, foreign and cold, and _nothing_ like the one that used to be here.  Looking around, Bellamy can feel hopelessness rear up within him. Tears, too, start to build, and a weight settles over his chest – but now it’s entirely imagined. Monty had taken Her ring from him, and hadn’t given it back. A sob works its way to his throat, nearly spilling out of his mouth before he can stop it. Bellamy tucks his chin to his chest and tries to breath, but every breath he takes is shaky, and it only makes him feel worse.

Everything is different, and it’s _wrong_. But all of it - the fact that he had to tear himself from this life and sever every connection he’d ever had to it -  it all comes down to the one choice Bellamy made ten years ago, and the one he would always make: his sister. And that meant getting out.

At the time it had been his only option; to run before the war ended, whilst bullets were still flying and no one would miss him for a few days; to duck out of the Griffin Manor with his sister under one arm and a holdall under the other, clinging to the memory of Her lips on his cheek. Bellamy needed to save his sister from this life, from the needless bloodshed and endless wars – and yet, even though he tried, even though he gave up _everything_ , this life still claimed her.

Unbidden, the thought comes to him that if he had never left, if had stayed by Her side like he promised all those years ago, Octavia would be safe. And he is furious sat himself for even thinking it, that his sister would have been safer raised in a fucking _mob._ That he could even be so selfish as to think, even for a second, that this was what Octavia might have wanted.

Suddenly the fury within Bellamy bursts, like a balloon filled with gasoline exploding over an open fire. He _needs_ something from before everything went to shit, back when he woke up every morning with the sound of rain on the window pane and the warmth of a body next to him, when all he could see was golden hair and blue eyes, and he could be sure that he’d face each day with a whole host of people he loved.

Usually, he could grasp Her ring and try and calm himself, but now there is nothing.

He stands, clenching his fists. Bellamy’s side throbs horribly, but he’s incensed, needing to find something that might not even exist anymore. A memory from when he was welcome in this house.

Bellamy checks every single inch of the room, searching for something that used to be _his_. He’s so tired, and damaged, hurt and aching and so god damn _tired._ And he knows he’s being pathetic, but still. He probes along every wall of the room and in the bathroom too, eyes closed and fingers searching.

Bellamy should have been asleep for almost an hour when he finds it. Really, he should have looked there first, because it’s the only thing he left that only he and one other person knew about; hidden away somewhere no one would think to look. Everything else, every nick and scrape on the walls, the dents he put in furniture and the holes he punched in anything he could reach – impersonal things, holding only bad memories – they’re all swept away, destroyed by new layers of plaster and paint and carpeting.

But the skirting board is the same. For whatever reason, _that_ is the thing they choose not to get rid of. Bellamy drops to his knees by the spot he remembers, his hands already scrambling. In places as old as these, there are odd angles and dips in the structure. The one in Bellamy’s room is as wide as his palm and as deep as his fingers; a useless extra corner. But good for hiding things.

He digs his nails behind the board and wrenches with everything he has. A whine builds in his chest as nothing happens, panicked and slightly hysterical. He dashes away from the spot, looking around the room frantically. There’s a pot of pencils and a pad of paper on the desk by the window, and Bellamy dives for them. He seizes a pencil with a feeling of triumph, and nearly trips in his eagerness to get back to the spot.

He jabs the pencil down where the skirting board meets the wall, snapping the lead clean off. The pencil sinks barely a centimetre. Bellamy yanks the pencil out and tries again, this time leaving it in and smacking it with the flat of his hand. He does this over and over, until the skirting board starts to loosen against the wall. Bellamy throws the pencil away behind him, his fingers scrabbling at the gap that the pencil left. He tugs and pulls and hisses through his teeth.

Until finally the skirting board comes flying, sending Bellamy sprawling backwards. His side throbs with pain, and he’s fairly certain that he’s lying on the pencil, but he clutches his prize in his hand, turning it over in his hands. He breathes out softly, incredulously.

It’s still there.

And it shouldn’t be. Because She was the only other person to know about it – to have seen him carve it with the knife he’d been given by her parents on his eighteenth birthday, to have laughed at the way he made the ‘R’ in her name; too long and not wide enough, she’d said; the only one to have kissed him softly after they’d slid the board back into place, giggling at how silly it all was.

**CLARKE + BELLAMY**

* * *

Bellamy doesn’t know how long he’d spent sat staring at that small, useless piece of wood, but his attention is only drawn from it when he hears shouts from downstairs. His room is on a corridor that overlooks the East wing common room, and the sounds travels up through the empty space and under his door easily.

“ _He’s upstairs? Right now?”_

He can’t place the voice immediately, but the venom in it is enough to make his shoulders tense and his teeth clench. Bellamy clambers to his feet, wobbling slightly as the blood rushes back into his cramped limbs. He tries not to look at the skirting board too closely as he slowly slides it home, listening cautiously all the while.

“ _Yeah_.” Jaha Junior says heavily, all of his weariness conveyed in that single word.

“ _What the_ fuck _, Wells? You actually let him back_ in _here?”_

_“I didn’t have much of a choice, Murphy.”_

Bellamy winces. Wells may not have gone for his throat, but John Murphy wouldn’t think twice before pulling a knife and going to town on any bit of Bellamy he could reach. His loyalty to the Griffin’s was hard-won, and would be nigh impossible to shake. He was one of the current Head’s top lieutenants – along with Wells and one other. But unlike Wells and Clarke, Murphy was strictly behind the scenes; which is what made him so dangerous.

 _“Like fuck you didn’t! You know that bastard did to her; to_ us _!”_

The sharp, female hiss was something Bellamy could never forget; not only because he’d heard it in so many different ways. Raven Reyes was the final main player in the Griffin Family. She provided the family with international connections, and had a brain that universities worldwide fought over. She was also vengeful to the extreme, resolute in her convictions, and often unwilling to compromise or forgive. She, like Murphy, would have no problem taking him out and letting someone else clean the mess up. But, unlike Murphy, Raven had a soft spot for Octavia, so at least Bellamy could be safe in the fact that she’d at least try to find his sister.

 _“I know! You honestly think I’ve_ forgotten _? Christ, guys, I’ve known Clarke for longer than anyone else here; I know_ exactly _what that man did!”_

Bellamy can’t help the cringe at the sound of Clarke’s name aloud. The last time he’d heard it was when Octavia had hurled it at him during an argument only months after the war with Mount Weather and their midnight flight. He’d flinched so violently that O had dropped the argument, tears springing to her eyes as well as her brothers.

 _“Then why is he_ here?” Murphy and Raven demand at the same time, their voices chorusing.

“ _He had Clarke’s ring.”_ Monty says grimly, his voice previously unheard in the exchange. Bellamy can picture them all down there easily, where they sit and how they look. He’s honestly curious as to how Raven and Murphy have changed, and his heart clenches as he realises that it’s been _ten years_ since he was able to saunter downstairs and sit with the people he once considered as much family as his sister.

There’s a few beats of silence.

“ _What.”_ Murphy says flatly, and Bellamy holds his breath as he slinks towards his bed.

“ _The blue signet ring, the one-”_

 _“I know what fucking ring you fucking mean, Green! Why in the_ fuck _does_ he _have it?”_

Bellamy closes his eyes as the pure hate in Murphy’s voice washes over him. Before Murphy had been dragged from death by Clarke’s hands, he’d barely been able to shoot in a straight line – and now Bellamy was close to regretting spending so much time rectifying that fact.

Raven clears her throat uneasily, and it’s all Bellamy can do to stop himself from pressing his ear to the door.

“ _Clarke…she said…she said she gave that to a_ friend. _That they could use it to call in a favour. Are honestly trying to tell me that she gave it to Bellamy? Even when…oh my god…”_

There’s a thump, and Bellamy assumes its Raven collapsing back onto one of the couches.

 _“That can’t be right!”_ Murphy exclaims, “ _No fucking way would she have given that to him if she’d’ve – no. No way.”_

“ _It’s the only thing that makes sense.”_ Wells tired voice rings out, each word laced with regret.

There’s a round of muttering, broken only by Murphy’s, loud, vehement swearing.

 _“She knew.”_ Raven murmurs eventually. It barely reaches his ears, but those two words nearly make Bellamy’s knees buckle. “ _She knew he was going to leave.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem to be on a roll with this one, so it might be updated again soon :O (but no promises sry)

**Author's Note:**

> Updates are not certain, but I will try. Sorry.


End file.
